Miscellanies By John Armstrong ... In Two Volumes |
 | I. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
|
|
| II. |
|
| I. | ACT I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| III. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| IV. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | Miscellanies |  |
5
ACT I.
SCENE I.
The SCENE, A Hall in STRENI's Castle, in the Kingdom of NAPLESSTRENI, VICTORIA, a Servant.
STRENI.
Go, call her hither;—go!—your mistress, woman,
My hopeful daughter!
VICTORIA.
O not yet, my Lord.
You are too warm—indeed you are.
STRENI.
Well then,
I'll never see her more. Go tell her so.—
Away!
6
SCENE II.
STRENI, VICTORIA.VICTORIA.
Compose yourself, my Lord.
STRENI.
My daughter
To fly my house! to make herself and me
The public jest! 'tis monstrous!
VICTORIA.
But, my Lord—
STRENI.
Fly from her own good fortune to a nunnery!
She should have pin'd her life out there, amongst
The peevish sisterhood.—But I'm too gentle;
I've been too kind a parent; that's my fault,
And I deserve this.—
Had I been stern, as many fathers are,
She durst as well have leapt the battlements
As stolen this flight.
VICTORIA.
'Tis true, my Lord, you have been
A tender father; and my cousin knows it.
7
The day too fixed—and with her own consent—
The match above her proudest hopes—a prize
Scarce to be dreamt of!—Death and distraction!
This luckless wretch's flight will ruin all!
O God! O God!
VICTORIA.
Nay, never fear the Count.
He'll hardly flinch, his love's too obstinate
For that; I'll answer for his constancy,
As little as I know him.
STRENI.
What dost thou say,
VICTORIA? Yes, there's comfort in that thought.—
All may be well yet, think'st thou?—I'm glad, however,
This rash young Hector has not swept her off.
She's here, she's safe; and all my fears from him
Are gone: thank heaven for that!—My dear VICTORIA,
What wouldst thou say? thou hadst something to impart—
Come, speak.
VICTORIA.
My Lord, I know not what to say:
You're grown so choleric that I dare not speak.
8
When, without fear or thinking twice, I durst
Give all my follies their full play before you.
But this unwonted rage quite frightens me;
It checks my utterance: yet, what need I fear
Lest ought too careless should escape my tongue,
When I'm not heard?
STRENI.
Forgive me, my VICTORIA.
You see how grievously I am provoked.
Anger forgets good manners; pardon me:
I now am calm, I am myself again.
Speak what thou wilt, as unrestrained as ever.
VICTORIA.
I shall offend.
STRENI.
Fear not. If thou hast ought
That burns within here, boldly give it vent.
I am not yet I hope so peevish grown
As to take fire at any friendly freedom.
I know thou meanst us well.
VICTORIA.
Heaven knows I do.
9
Then freely speak thy mind.
VICTORIA.
Well then, my Lord,
Since I have leave to speak, and may be heard;
This marriage—must it be?
STRENI.
It must, VICTORIA.
VICTORIA.
In earnest?
STRENI.
Surely.
VICTORIA.
Then I'm sorry for it.
And, STRENI, tho' to contradict your wisdom
May misbecome my sex, still more my years;
Yet in OLYMPIA's cause I will be plain,
And right or wrong declare my inmost thoughts.
Two sisters bore us; but I love OLYMPIA
More for her sweet and generous qualities
Than all these ties of blood. At your command
I come to see the nuptial rites performed:
But if her mind is so averse, I'd rather
Weep at her funeral, tho' my heart should break.
10
You cannot think I love my daughter less
Than you, VICTORIA; or less know her interest.
What other motive than paternal love
Could make me urge this marriage?
VICTORIA.
Urge a marriage!
That rigid tie which death alone dissolves!
That bold decisive step, which fixes us
In happiness or misery for ever!
That state which is a lottery at the best,
But ventured on with coyness and reluctance
Has little chance to prosper! All things else
To this are trifles, and not worth disputing.
Prevent a giddy marriage when you can;
But never urge the wisest.
STRENI.
How you dictate!
But I have told more years than you, have seen
A little more of life too; and 'tis hard
If old experience has not taught me something.
'Tis strange if passion, prejudice, and youth
Decide more soundly than deliberate reason,
That sees the objects in dispute divested
11
Pray, of two judges qualified so differently,
Which is the likeliest to determine right?
VICTORIA.
Doubtless, my Lord, the judge who sits serene
Above all mists of passion. But where is he?
Youth has its follies: and when these decline,
A passion springs, they say, that blinds the soul
As much as that gay dotage Love itself.
A certain flower of winter!—Fy upon it!—
They call it—Avarice.
STRENI.
You're a saucy girl,
And always was so: that pretty head of thine
Has too much pertness in it.
VICTORIA.
Pardon me,
My Lord; but either now, or henceforth never
Can I with any grace or decency
Claim those bold licences your goodness used
T' indulge me in. Suppose you now at play
With a Piedmontese sharper; one that had broke
An hundred banks; a dextrous knave that cheats you
At every throw: and I a looker on.
Should it offend you, if by a wink or hem,
12
Of this accomplish'd villain? My Lord, my Lord,
This common cheat, this hankering after more,
Betrays the wisest to strange weaknesses.
How else could this e'er happen? STRENI's daughter,
Rich STRENI's only child, has made (and not
Without her father's warrant too) a fair
Exchange of hardly-violable vows, with
A youth whose qualities and accomplishments
Equal his noble birth. Heaven! what should hinder
Such lovers to be happy?—A richer man,
Better allied, of finer dispositions
Or parts, I dare not say—but surely older,
Steps in; and STRENI, never famed for blundering.
The soundest judge of other men's proceedings,
Prefers his suit; th' indulgent father grows
A tyrant, where he least should use his power.
It is so strange, I shall believe in witchcraft!
'Tis plain infatuation!
STRENI.
Surely older!
Ay, there's the crime no merit can attone for.
Better be rash, hot-headed, passion's slave;
Better be mad, and young; than old with all
13
Yet CLAUDIO's not so very old.
VICTORIA.
No, not
Much turned of fifty.
STRENI.
Be it as you will;
He is for pleasing manners, even for person,
A more engaging man than fifty such
As those whom youth and folly recommend
To ruin half your sex.
VICTORIA.
You think him so, my Lord.
But does OLYMPIA think so? that's material.
Taste is so various, what engages one
Disgusts another: and 'tis vain to dictate
To this despotic principle of nature.
Yet, if it must be so, you should prescribe
Where I shall live, and how; what I shall wear;
Even what companions shall engross my time
For days, for weeks, for months; tho' this might prove
A cruel trespass on my native freedom;
But let my friend for life, my fortune's lord,
On whom depends my bliss or misery,
Be of my own approving: here at least,
14
I have seen the Count, and—
STRENI.
Well, what think you of him?
VICTORIA.
My Lord, I must not touch irreverently
A character that boasts your good opinion:
I dare not tamper with such sacred things.
Befides I'm but a woman, and a young one;
And to be critical in ought but dress
Or dancing would not suit me. But, if you please,
I'll tell you what some, who pretend to judge
And think they know him, say.
STRENI.
Well, what? Come on.
What do they say, good cousin?
VICTORIA.
First, they praise
His person; which they say is, for his years,
Specious enough; tall, jovial, sleek and blooming,
As if 'twere May still. Nor is his mind, they say,
Less youthful; for he's charmingly facetious;—
As far as mere corporeal jollity
Is wit and humour; but it seems no further.
15
'Tis strange, he has never blundered out one joke!
For his parts they say but little: that may be envy.
And yet they own that, from sagacious selfishness,
And want of heart, he has cunning and deceit
Enough t' outwit ten cardinals; for beneath
An open, frank, unguarded-like behaviour,
A shew of smooth and dimpling innocence,
It seems he hides a quicksand: and they say
He has earned his wealth as boldly as consists
With honest policy, and a just regard
For his own precious head.
STRENI.
A bold free hand
To sketch a character out! The only thing
That's wanting here is likeness.
VICTORIA.
Nay, my Lord,
I only tell you what report says of him;
If that belies him 'tis no fault of mine.
I have heard indeed, that his manner, from facetious,
Is grown of late embarrass'd and half sad:
That he looks pensive, talks to himself, and when
He laughs, it seems an effort to disguise
16
To those who mark him. But the cause is plain:
'Tis love, 'tis foolish love, makes him so grave.—
A hopeful youth to grow love-pensive!—Lord!
I long to see him languish! It must be charming
To see him languish for a Lady's fortune!
STRENI.
Fortune! What's that to him, whose ample means,
Raised by his gallant service in the war,
From the sad ruins of an ancient seat,
Vie with the Princes of proud Italy?
What can a moderate portion add to him
So opulent, and yet without an heir?
If fortune were his aim he could have choice
Of richer matches; but he loves OLYMPIA;
He best deserves her; and she shall be his,
Or else no child of mine. Besides, this spark,
This youth you so much boast of, by report
Ere now has found another bride.
VICTORIA.
Be that
As it may happen. But, alas! my Lord,
Must all the joys and comforts of her life
Be fondly sacrificed to this ambition,
17
To---were it the first house in Italy?
But if there be such charms in possibly
Bringing a boy, who possibly may live
T' inherit a great fortune, wear high titles,
And yet perhaps be neither great nor happy;
OLYMPIA, blest with every grace of nature,
With fortune's bounties, and your daughter too,
So young, may wait till other matches offer
More to her mind, perhaps as much to yours.
Nineteen is surely not a desperate age;
'Tis even too young to be unplum'd into
That tame domestic creature called a Wife,
And quit the careless pleasures of the world.
Nay, 'tis not decent at these years to grow
A sober matron.
STRENI.
How thou ramblest on!—
But I am old, my child; I have not long
To live, not many years; and 'tis my wish,
My favourite aim, before I die, to see
My daughter settled in a solid state
Of happiness. That done, my rest of life
18
Which age delights in: and I shall------
SCENE III.
STRENI, VICTORIA, a Servant.SERVANT.
My Lord,
There's one just now arrived with some dispatches
He has rode all night to bring you.
STRENI.
I'll see him presently.
Go tell OLYMPIA that this Lady here
Expects her company.
SCENE IV.
STRENI, VICTORIA.STRENI.
My dear VICTORIA,
I'll leave you to your cousin's entertainment
A little while.
VICTORIA.
I'll go myself and find her.
19
SCENE V.
VICTORIA.Who could believe this good old man, so easy
So gentle otherways, should in this case
Prove so inflexible! But here comes OLYMPIA.—
Alas, how altered!—
SCENE VI.
VICTORIA, OLYMPIA.VICTORIA.
Ah, my dearest cousin!—
Come, we're alone.
OLYMPIA.
Welcome to my sad heart!—
What need have I of such a cordial sight!
VICTORIA.
Poor dear OLYMPIA!—How catching are thy tears!—
Thy griefs are mine. Would I could bear them for thee!
OLYMPIA.
How I have long'd to see my only friend,
My kind companion!—Now she comes too late;
For I'm undone for ever!
20
It must not be:
All is not lost yet.—Bless me! thy hands burn mine—
Thou art not well.
OLYMPIA.
Ah! did you know, VICTORIA,
What I have suffered since we parted last,
You'd wonder that this mortal frame so long
Could bear such misery.
VICTORIA.
Come, dry thy tears.
The worst is past.—Your father will relent:
He needs must yield at last.
OLYMPIA.
Oh! never, never!—
To-morrow, for ought that yet appears, compleats
My wretchedness.
VICTORIA.
Good Heaven! it must not be.
What! be engaged by force in vows so solemn!
'Tis madness to suppose it.
OLYMPIA.
Either it must be so,
Or I must live an out-cast in the world,
21
That's my hard sentence.
VICTORIA.
Never till this moment
Have I once dreamt what happiness it was
To own a little fortune uncontroll'd
By any human caprice.—'Tis thine, OLYMPIA!—
Heavens! We shall be the happiest two that live!—
I say 'tis thine!
OLYMPIA.
My generous kind VICTORIA!
But can I bear my father's fix'd displeasure?—
Tho' to my daily grief I have found of late
His tenderness estrang'd, I am not yet
So harden'd with unkindness to endure
To lose his smiles for ever.
VICTORIA.
That fear is vain.
Your father is not of so stern a make.
He cannot tear you from his heart; in him
Nature defies it: this severity
Is but put on, and costs him many a pang,
No doubt, to urge you to what he conceives
Your greatest happiness.—But I long, OLYMPIA,
To hear the whole of thy disastrous tale.
22
Intelligence has been shut up between us,
Has kept me still in painful ignorance
Of what has past. The general part indeed
I know too well; but for particulars
All I have learnt is merely from report;
Whose specious lies discredit every truth
It chances to throw out. I left you blest
In the gay spring of love. A view more charming
Of all that's sweet in th' harmony of souls
Was never seen: your father too then seemed
To hold ALPHONSO as his own; as one
Soon to become his son-in-law.
OLYMPIA.
'Tis true:
And till my father had disclosed his mind,
To give a sanction to ALPHONSO's vows;
Whatever tenderness possess'd my soul,
I let it fondly prey upon itself;
My eyes ne'er told it, and much less my tongue.
I hid my conscious blushes as I could,
My fault'ring speech was virgin bashfulness,
And if I trembled 'twas alarm, not love.
Oh! I could burst, and on thy friendly bosom
Breathe out my soul, VICTORIA, to remember
23
It was a sweet disease, a charming dream,
And but a dream, of happiness. At last
We were contracted by the mutual will
Of both our parents; and a distant day
Fix'd for the nuptials; when, alas!—
VICTORIA.
I know
This CLAUDIO saw you; this rich Count: would he
And all his millions in a mine had been
Blown to the Moon, that luckless hour he came
Blundering to blast such hopeful buds of joy!
How I could curse him!—But my dear OLYMPIA,
I interrupt your story.
OLYMPIA.
Alas! my father,
Dazzled with CLAUDIO's wealth, and by his arts
Of most immoderate shameless flattery won,
Grew cold to poor ALPHONSO; by degrees
Chang'd his familiar cordial entertainment
To dry civility, and shocking ceremony:
Seized every opportunity to lessen him
In my affections, and to recommend
A stranger to my breast. 'Twas all in vain.
24
To shift the pure devotion of my heart
From lov'd ALPHONSO to a golden idol?
Nay, to th' old object of ALPHONSO's hate?—
I own I ne'er attempted it. But from
That adverse time the fortune of our loves
Has still declined; and (strange fatality!)
Soon after this another cross event
Confirm'd the former.—
VICTORIA.
How?
OLYMPIA.
One night at court,
In the full splendor of a birth-day crowd,
A vain pert fool, a minion of the King's,
A coxcomb drunk with favour, snatch'd my hand
And rudely kiss'd it; such confusion seiz'd me
I had almost sunk: ALPHONSO, who was by,
Forgetful of the reverence of the place
And the King's presence, with one desperate blow
Laid the plum'd courtier sprawling on the floor:
And for that hasty generous fault was banished
From Naples to Palermo, for a twelvemonth.
25
Banish'd! Heaven's patience! Had he failed to do it
He had merited eternal banishment;
From Naples, Italy, from every land,
From all society where honour's thought of.
Had I been King th' ill-manner'd fool who gave
The first offence, and brought the other on,
(Which was at worst a noble rashness) should
Have bore the punishment alone.
OLYMPIA.
The King,
On due submissions offered by ALPHONSO,
'Tis thought would freely have revoked the sentence,
But for the secret practices of some
Who wish'd his absence. Those dark dealings made
All intercession vain; tho' for my sake
He sloop'd to more than otherways, I know,
His generous pride would have consented to.—
No remedy: he must depart, and leave me
A widowed bride; tho' first he press'd the nuptials,
He claimed my hand: that was denied; my father
Found some prudential reasons to excuse it
Till his return. ALPHONSO warmly urged
A private marriage: this my filial duty
Forbade; tho' else, with all my soul, I would
26
Not to Palermo, but to any desart,
To Nature's wildest solitudes; I owed it,
Could ought be dismal where ALPHONSO was,
To him who owed his banishment to me.
It was a mournful parting: one sad year
Appeared an age; and till that age expired
Our only view of consolation was
Such intercourse as separates from the dead
Our absent friends.—But since that cruel day
Not one short letter—
VICTORIA.
How? That's strange, OLYMPIA!
OLYMPIA.
'Tis no such wonder. For this generous exile,
The hardly-used ALPHONSO, scarce had left
The gates of Naples, when my father hurried me
Down to these ancient melancholy walls,
Remote from Naples and all neighbourhood.
The real aim of this retreat, as from
Th' event appears too plain, was to cut off
All correspondence with ALPHONSO, and those
That might promote intelligence between us;
While this insidious rival should be favoured
With all advantages to undermine
27
This sad retirement, this confinement rather,
My correspondence has been strictly watched
Like one in gaol for treason. No company
This twelvemonth have I seen but ALPHONSO,
And those who with his odious praises chafe
My persecuted ears. I have been afraid
Of every morning's light; for every day
Has seen me flattered, threatened, and cajoled,
Tortured and teized, to what I most abhor.
What's worse than these, strange fancies haunt my mind,
And jealous cares pursue me, that my breast
Pants with perpetual terrors and alarms.
My health in sickly languor pines away:
Kind sleep forsakes me; and when harrass'd Nature
Sinks in imperfect rest, distracted dreams,
Worse than my waking miseries, shake me from
My frighted slumbers. Gracious Heaven defend me!
'Tis horrible to think how near the verge
Of madness I have been.
VICTORIA.
Alas, OLYMPIA!
What blasts have shook thy gentle soul! But Heaven
And thine own fortitude will still support thee
To baffle all their rage.
28
My fortitude!
Alas! my little share of that, VICTORIA,
Has failed me already; fatally has failed me.
For tired with endless teizing, glad to gain
Some respite from the present pain, at last
I promised in the weakness of my mind,
That if within three days beyond the term
In which ALPHONSO's banishment expir'd,
He did not claim my plighted faith, I should
Resign my hand to CLAUDIO. This I thought
Was no great venture. For tho' no letters came,
I hoped I knew the cause; nor would I doubt
ALPHONSO's faith, and purpose not to lose
One day of liberty in absence from me;
These I remember were his words at parting,
But, ah VICTORIA! would that doleful year
Was yet not ended, that I still might hope!
VICTORIA.
Is it then past?
OLYMPIA.
Two days since: and to-morrow
Decides my destiny.
VICTORIA.
But is there ought
29
ALPHONSO has commenced a nuptial treaty
With a Sicilian Lady?
OLYMPIA.
Such a rumour
Has, since that promise was extorted from me,
Been so industriously rung in my ears,
And managed with such arts and aggravations,
It seemed, when the first shock was past, a fiction
Contriv'd to shake my faith, and drive me in
A hurry of resentment to my ruin.
But by your looks you seem to apprehend
'Tis something more—Perhaps you've heard he's married.
For Heaven's sake do not flatter me, VICTORIA.
If it is so tell me.—Ah!
VICTORIA.
Nay, dear OLYMPIA,
I tell you all I have heard; and that perhaps
Comes from the secret fountain-head of lies.
At least if such a treaty was confirmed
You might expect the earliest notice of it.
My life for't your intelligence in that
Would pass without much barr or scrutiny.
OLYMPIA.
That's all my little comfort. But alas!
30
Sometimes my melancholy whispers me
He has forgot or hates me, and in revenge of
My father's slights has left me. At other times
That probity, that unaffected warmth
Of love unchanged by shocking injuries;
Those generous manners, th' inviolable honour
Which even his enemies admit, assure me
He cannot be so base to quit me thus,
Without some form at least of taking leave.
Perhaps he has heard I'm married, and believes it;
Perhaps he is not well.—I'm all perplexity.
This agony of suspence is perfect torture,
From which, to know that fate had done its worst
Would be a kind of desperate repose.—
Should he prove faithless, I have done, VICTORIA,
What you'll despise me for.
VICTORIA.
It cannot be.
You ne'er can stoop to ought that's really mean:
But what, dear cousin?
OLYMPIA.
As the time approach'd
Which was to prove decisive of my fortune,
My fears encreased; my anxious throbbings grew
31
Could find no quiet. My restless brain at work
How to prevent the worst, at last I found
A trusty messenger to bear with speed
A letter to ALPHONSO; which explained
Whate'er was needful of my sufferings past
And fears of worse to come; and that if still
He loved and meant to claim me, the least delay
Might render that impossible. Ere this
I might have had some answer; but no news
Arriving, in despair last night I sought
Protection in a monastry that stands
Amongst the neighbouring mountains: there I past
The anxious night; but thither traced, this morning
I was demanded by th' authority of
My father in his vassals.
VICTORIA.
But the sisters,
The Abbess, Heaven! how could they yield you up
So tamely?—their protection!
OLYMPIA.
Do not blame them;
They did their utmost for me. I was received
With manners most respectfully obliging,
With tears of sympathy, and fluttering care
32
But as my sheltering place was soon discovered,
'Twas more it seems than they could answer for,
To brave my father's summons.—You see, VICTORIA,
How every refuge fails me. A short time now
Remains for me to hope. Yet something still,
Whether the whisperings of some friendly power,
Or the last effort of tenacious hope,
Suggests to my sore mind that ere to-morrow
ALPHONSO will be here. But come what will
I shall not marry CLAUDIO; that's determined.—
I know one refuge from all misery—
One cordial draught shall—
VICTORIA.
What?—Thy words are frightful!—
Heaven banish all such thoughts!—Alas! OLYMPIA,
Thou lookst thro' the false glass of Melancholy.
Trust me there's nothing yet so desperate here.
Whate'er may happen lucklessly, the worst
Is still avoidable.—You shall be sick—
Or take another flight.—We'll fly together.
I will secure you in a little fortress
Which to the General himself in person
Shall scarce surrender you at the first summons.
There are a thousand shifts; more than we yet
33
Come let us hide ourselves, and plot together.
'Twill be a charming triumph, if we two,
In half a day, at one unlooked-for blow,
Can dreadful schemes demolish, which to rear
Has cost much older heads a restless year.
| Miscellanies | |